Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#028Reader Mode

T/N: Trigger Warning: May contain scenes of violence that are graphically depicted, which may upset sensitive viewers.

#028

Golden’s mind drifted back to a time when he savored a peculiar candy, shaped uncannily like an eyeball. It was a round, sweet orb that he would let rest on his tongue, rolling it around until it melted away, sometimes slipping from his grasp. When it did, it would skitter across the floor, glistening with a mix of spit and sugar.

The eye of Richard bore an eerie resemblance to that childhood candy. Coated in a strange secretion from the tentacle, the eye was unnervingly spherical. Were it not for the optic nerve trailing behind it like a disgusting tail, one might have mistaken it for that same candy, resurrected from the depths of Golden’s memories.

“Uh…”

A choked sound clawed its way up Golden’s throat. Suddenly, his dulled senses snapped back to the harsh reality—the acrid scent of blood carried on the breeze, the oppressive humidity of the swamp, the prickle of dread on his flesh.

“Gasp!”

With a sudden, sharp breath, the grim truth hit him: Richard was dead. The sagging, lifeless skin that remained failed to resemble anything once alive. His legs trembled, his knees wobbled, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he staggered forward, assuming a stance akin to a runner’s crouch, though his posture was awkward, almost unnatural. His fingers dug into the ground, now soaked with the blood that continued to rain down.

Slurp, slurp…

Golden and Brass could only watch in mute horror as the tentacle, unconcerned with their presence, seemed hell-bent on devouring even the last bits from Richard’s hollowed form.

The sickening sound of innards being slurped through a tight space echoed in Golden’s ears. When the tentacle finally retracted, what was left of Richard—a limp, empty shell—collapsed at the swamp’s edge.

The monster had left the skull and bones, apparently disinterested in their flavor. The remains, now just a skin-bony scaffold without its flesh, slumped in a pitiful heap. The absurd placement of a heel where a thigh should have been made the scene feel surreal.

“Pant, pant, pant…”

Golden’s breaths were frantic, ragged gasps; it was all he was capable of. The thought of picking up a rock to hurl, or some miraculous way to revive Richard, was nothing but a wild fantasy. If only he could muster the courage, he might have tried. But the monster didn’t wait for Golden to gather himself.

As it rose from the swamp, clumps of muck fell from its body, hitting the ground with sickening splats. It was such a monstrous sight. Golden held his breath instinctively, too terrified to exhale.

It was an immense, pale monstrosity.

The tentacles they had seen were merely a fraction of its entire mass. His lips trembled, parting in a silent scream, then clamped shut. Golden found himself at a loss for words in the face of this abomination. Even with half of its body still submerged, the visible part was enough to crush his spirit.

Then, the monster turned its attention towards Golden. He felt completely powerless, like a bug caught in a trap. Sensation slipped away from his limbs, and his vision started to darken.

But he didn’t have time to give in to the overwhelming despair.

“Argh!”

The cause of Golden’s sudden fall was simple yet expected. Brass, the only other survivor, had shoved him with unexpected force. Golden’s already unsteady frame toppled to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he saw Brass, in a frenzy of panic, unlocking and dashing into the old dormitory. Golden’s heart thundered in his chest, his vision clouded by a crimson haze of betrayal and fury.

“Brass, you son of a b*tch!”

Their relationship had always been a complex mix of friend and enemy, but Brass, true to his character as usual, had chosen self-preservation. Instead of words, Brass replied to Golden’s curses with the definitive sound of the door locking behind him.

Golden’s head throbbed with a fiery rage, his anger simmering like a volcano on the brink of eruption. Overcome by his wrath, he bellowed into the night.

“You’re not going to die a pretty death, Brass Steve!”

Brass, the outstanding bastard that he was, seemed completely unfazed by the venom in the curse thrown his way, dismissing it as if it were mere background noise. Golden steadied his trembling legs, forcing his stiff neck to look ahead. The fear he had momentarily pushed aside, the looming dread of the monster’s imminent attack, began to claw its way back into his thoughts.

Yet, the monster, for reasons unknown, remained still. Its lifeless tentacles brushed against the swamp’s surface, slowly sinking into the murky depths.

Golden didn’t care to figure out why. He didn’t want to know. With that, he bolted. He didn’t try to break into the dormitory or confront the monster; he ran for his life. His legs pounded the ground, retracing his steps in a desperate sprint. Stumbling over debris, falling face-first, his skin grazing against the rough terrain, he didn’t stop. Branches tore at his flesh as he pushed forward, clinging to the hope that reaching the convenience store might mean he could call for help.

The thought that Seojun might have ended his shift never crossed his panic-stricken mind. His hope was blind, much like a prayer whispered in desperation. The moon shone like a lone lantern, illuminating his path through the dark forest.

When he finally made it to the convenience store, all he found was a bicycle lying on its side, a school bag flung away carelessly, and a shattered cell phone. The metallic taste of blood lingered in his throat, his body was drenched in sweat, and his overstrained muscles felt as heavy as cotton drenched in water.

Frantically, Golden swept his hand across his forehead, wiping off the sweat as he scanned the area for any sign of Seojun, but he was nowhere to be found.

His legs shaky, Golden approached the broken phone. It looked generic, but he recognized it instantly – it was Seojun’s. He choked down the acrid taste of bile in his mouth. He had detected a faint trace of blood in the air on his way here, but had dismissed it as his imagination. Deep down, he knew he had chosen to ignore it.

Golden was notorious throughout Wraithwood Warren as a scoundrel, lacking in both morals and character, always seemingly one step away from becoming a criminal.

With his mind made up, he picked up the bicycle. Rummaging through Seojun’s bag, he found the anti-theft keys. Without hesitation, Golden jumped on the bike and pedaled back the way he had come, his legs screaming with each push.

The memory of the monster, still vivid and horrifying, tightened its grip around his heart with fear. But he had to return. There might still be a chance that he was there. Biting his lip hard enough to taste blood, he pushed on.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“You found what? A bike just lying there?”

Seojun couldn’t hide his disbelief as Golden awkwardly recounted finding a bike dumped by the convenience store and catching a whiff of blood along the way.

Golden’s story was, as always, skewed by his perspective. He had a habit of downplaying or trivializing details he deemed unimportant, and his recounting was anything but objective. Seojun couldn’t help but snort in disbelief when Golden bragged about fearlessly throwing rocks at the monster.

Yet, there was one detail Seojun couldn’t overlook: the bicycle. Golden concluded his tale by mentioning he had ridden the bike from the store back to the campsite. As Seojun pieced together the timeline, the realization struck him hard.

“Right, Fortune teller. That bike was yours, huh? Rode it from the store, but found the gate locked. Ended up walking through the forest.”

Always you, isn’t it?

Seojun could only muster a hollow laugh. His life would be so much better without the Gold-Silver-Bronze Trio. In an ideal world, he would have grabbed Golden, who’d helped himself to his bike, and shaken him senseless. But realistically, any attempt to confront Golden’s brawny build would likely end with Seojun flailing ineffectively, as powerless as the arm of a scarecrow in the wind.

Seojun exhaled deeply, massaging his right twitching eyelid.

“And my phone… it was broken… where you said?”

His voice was shaky, clearly upset. The loss of the bike was one thing, but the phone was still being paid off. Golden, oblivious to Seojun’s inner turmoil, nonchalantly nodded.

“Yeah, completely destroyed. Looked like it’d been stomped on. Go buy a new one.”

Seojun shot Golden a glare that was a mix of anger and disbelief, feeling a sudden heat behind his eyes. He absently wiped his nose, struggling to keep his feelings in check.

Damn Gas Mask.

Anger warmed his face, but his thoughts were chillingly clear. He caught himself biting the inside of his cheek again.

Gas Mask’s scheme to isolate the campsite was becoming clearer. The shock of seeing Golden with the bike was more than just about the bike—it was the realization that Gas Mask had the kind of endurance that made Seojun’s stomach churn with a mix of fear and frustration.

Deep down, he felt an almost resigned acceptance of their predicament. How invincible are the serial killers in horror movies? They return time and again, surviving falls off buildings, shots, stabbings, explosions, even being run over and drownings. They just keep coming back, emotionless and unstoppable.

That’s what makes a serial killer terrifying.

Only when the battered, blood-soaked Final Girl lands the killing blow do these relentless beings appear mortal. Gas Mask was no different.

Seojun let out a quiet sigh of relief. Thankfully, ‘The Murderer of the Bloody Lake’ didn’t get a sequel.

It was a dark thought, one he hoped would never become reality. If that movie had taken off and spawned sequels, he couldn’t even imagine what his future would look like.

Lost in these gloomy reflections, Seojun tensed in surprise as Johan’s chin unexpectedly came to rest on his head. Johan’s large hand soothingly rubbed his shoulder, his deep voice breaking the silence.

“Hmm seems pretty clear then, Brass was the one who attacked Seojun when he passed by here.”

Seojun began to reply, “But why would Brass…” only to trail off into silence.

Christina’s puzzled expression caught his eye. Seojun met her gaze, noticing her look of concern.

Christina wasn’t naive, simply unversed in the ways of wickedness. Seojun turned his gaze to Golden, whose face was twisted in his trademark scowl, a cauldron of silent fury. Seojun spoke up, connecting the dots.

“He was probably trying to set me up as bait, something for the monster to focus on instead of him.”

The pieces fell into place—the peculiar smell near the old dorm, why he had been corralled towards the swamp instead of being shot outright.

Brass, it seemed, was willing to sacrifice Seojun to gain time for himself.

“To do such a thing…”

Christina’s lips, usually pale and delicate, tightened in disgust. Airi, still shaken and pallid from the recent horrors, limped over, her expression darkening.

“Brass really is a bastard, and you, Golden, you’ve got to start picking better company.”

Airi, who had been retching continuously after hearing about Richard’s death, shot Golden a look of pure scorn. Golden opened his mouth to defend himself, but words failed him. It was literally a situation where he had been abandoned by a friend, all he could do was bow his head in shame.

Golden clenched his jaw, while Airi was far from holding back. As she tried to console Christina, a light of understanding sparked in her eyes.

“Hold on! Let me get this straight. That thing that got Richard is still out there in the swamp, Brass got nabbed by Gas Mask and had his crossbow taken away, and Golden, you managed to escape but came back without even reporting to the police? What the hell is going on?”

“Gas Mask? What’s that all about?”

“I guess I have to start with that explanation first….”

Golden’s rude interjection made Seojun’s head spin. The more people got involved, the messier everything became. But before anyone could fill Golden in on Gas Mask, Golden, scowling, plunged his hand into his pocket and raised his voice.

“Who do you take me for, showing up empty-handed? Do you think I just ran back here, charmed by that Fortune teller’s words? Cut the crap. Look, I didn’t come back without a plan—I’ve got a phone.”

As he spoke, the bulge in the pocket he was rummaging in was unmistakable.